Losing My Mind
by Jane Westin
Summary: Slash: Shawn/Carlton. Shaken by a brush with danger, Shawn finds himself on Lassiter's doorstep. First-time...for Shawn and Lassie, and me, too!  New formatting for chapters IV and V, but no new story. Sorry.
1. Spend Sleepless Nights

Title: Losing My Mind: a fic in five parts (I. Spend Sleepless Nights)

Author: Jane Westin

Pairing: Shawn/Carlton

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.

Notes: This is my warm-up (ie, first time writing slash, first time writing Psych fics). Please forgive the lack of plot; I had to get used to the characters before I could think about giving them a murder to solve. I think I know them well enough to put in a little more storyline next time. Thank you for reading!

NOTE: Format changed due to some weird mistakes on my part. Now it's five chapters, but no extra story. I'm sorry.

Shawn is mostly fine, mostly.

Sure, it was a last-second, barely-scraped-by rescue by Lassiter. Sure, it was kind of - okay, totally - Shawn's fault that Gus had ended up with a Desert Eagle pointed at his sweet, sweet dome. Sure, Shawn had actually _seen_ Rourke's finger tighten on the trigger before Lassiter's single shot whistled by Shawn's ear, clipping his pinna before finding its mark directly between Rourke's eyes.

But Shawn is mostly fine.

Mostly.

Shawn realizes that he has made it through the last three episodes of True Blood without noticing Sookie's legs at all. He's hungry, even though he'd eaten an entire box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal bars for dinner less than three hours ago. His body feels jittery and itchy on the inside. His bones hurt.

He reaches for his phone, dials Gus's number. It rings five times and goes to voicemail.

He counts out his heartbeat for a full minute before he calls again. One-ten. Voicemail.

Another minute. One-twenty-four. Voicemail.

Forcing his voice to sound casual. "Dude, I need your help, I can't find that bag of Werther's Originals I bought yesterday."

One-twenty-nine. He puts the phone down, picks it up again, goes to his text-messaging screen. _Candy emergency. Call asap!_

Come on, Gus.

Shawn walks around the couch four times, drops to the floor, does twenty push-ups. Tears open a second box of cereal bars and eats two in quick succession. Twenty more push-ups, and then a couple of Tony Horton-style wacky jacks, just because he can.

When his phone rings, he jumps for it so fast he almost drops it. "Gus!"

"Dude. You put them in the freezer." Gus's voice, irritated, tinny through the iPhone speaker. "You remember I'm on a date, right?"

"Oh! Right!" Shawn forces a laugh. "Right, the freezer. I was just...I...hypoglycemia."

"Shawn, it's been three days. You don't need to check on me every half hour. In fact, I'd be indebted to you if you didn't." A little gentler now, still prickly.

"No, right, you misunderstand...I mean, I have to go. Freezer burn." He ends the call, tosses the phone on the couch.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," he says, to no one, but it isn't really, because Rourke's finger had moved on the trigger and Lassie had come out of nowhere and Rouke's finger had moved and HIS FINGER HAD MOVED and oh God he had almost lost Gus. He feels like throwing up. Because he had almost lost Gus, and that meant that Gus _could_ be lost, anyone could be lost. He could wake up tomorrow and find that Gus and Henry and Lassie and Jules and maybe even Buzz had piled into a VW van to go to Coachella and accidentally driven over the edge of the Grand Canyon. His phone could ring any time and it could be that platinum-haired rookie at the station telling him that someone was dead. Dead. D-E-A-D dead. How can Gus be on a date when he could die any time? When anyone could? This isn't fun. Oh no, this isn't fun at all.

Is this how real people feel all the time, heavy and sick with dread?

Dead. Dead. Dead like those girls and dead like Rourke.

Lassie had killed Rourke.

Shawn jumps to his feet, grabs his keys, slams the door behind him.

He screeches to a halt in front of Lassiter's house, a tiny rental Lassiter had moved into after Juliet's disastrous attempt at a surprise party. He's forgotten his helmet, but it doesn't matter because Gus is alive and any of them could die at any moment anyway.

He stands on the stoop, fidgeting, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that showing up at Lassiter's house is just a hair shy of insane - so many guns! - and not really caring. He rings the bell, jabbing at it fast, three times. He bounces on his toes until he hears the deadbolt flip and then the door's opening and Lassiter is there. Frowning, but he doesn't look angry, just bemused and a little cranky. Still in his work clothes, dark grey slacks, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. No tie. Chest hair curling above his undershirt, so solid and real, is this what Lassie always looks like at home?

"What are you doing here, Spencer?"

His eyes are so _blue_.

How can Lassiter be standing there like...like a _person_, like a normal regular persony _person_, when he had picked Shawn up off the tracks right before they ended in a Looney Tunes cliff and a "Bridge Out" sign and carried him across to the other side? How can he do this every day when he does this every day?

So many questions. Shawn's head feels like a balloon that's been overfilled. Pretty soon the top of his shiny, too-thin skull will rupture and all those questions will scatter everywhere and Shawn will be left headless and confused and flailing, and Lassiter will still be out there saving the day.

"Spencer." Lassiter's frown deepens; those little anger-dimples appear on either side of his mouth. "What. Are. You. Doing here?"

Shawn opens his mouth. Closes it. He can't meet Lassie's eyes.

And because it doesn't matter anyway, because nothing does, he does the thing he has wanted to do for almost two years but has been too scared to do, and reaches out, and places both hands flat on Lassiter's chest.

He feels Lassiter startle, feels the sharp intake of breath. Feels Lassiter sway, not backwards away from Shawn, but slightly to the right. Sees, out of the corner of his eye, Lassiter's hands come up to brace the doorframe.

"Psychic vision?" Lassiter says, and Shawn thinks it's probably supposed to sound sarcastic but Lassie's voice is too tight and Shawn knows him better than that.

He keeps his eyes on his hands, silhouetted starfish against Lassiter's white shirt because the porch light is off, and Lassiter isn't moving. The pads of his first and second fingers are over Lassiter's collarbones. He can feel Lassiter's heart pounding against his right palm. One-oh-seven. One-twenty-two. And he still isn't moving.

"No." He swallows because his throat is dry and oh, who removed the air from the porch? "Don't get lost." Because it doesn't matter.

But then suddenly it does, everything does, because Lassiter's hands are moving, up and off the doorframe, long fingers wrapping around Shawn's. Gently peeling Shawn's hands off his chest. And Shawn realizes where he is, what he's doing, what he's done.

"Oh. Lassie. I-" And now he does meet Lassiter's eyes.

Such an odd expression on Lassiter's face, that little vertical crease between his eyebrows, his lips pulled tight like when he's angry, but he doesn't look angry. And his eyes are blue, blue, blue swallowed up in big black pupils.

"This isn't where I parked my car," Shawn says lamely. He pulls his hands away, steps back, jumps the three steps off the porch. Gets on his bike.

Drives back home.


	2. To Think About You

Title: Losing My Mind: a fic in five parts (II. To Think About You)

Author: Jane Westin

Pairing: Shawn/Carlton

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.

Notes: This is my warm-up (ie, first time writing slash, first time writing Psych fics). Please forgive the lack of plot; I had to get used to the characters before I could think about giving them a murder to solve. I think I know them well enough to put in a little more storyline next time. Thank you for reading!

Carlton knows it, even if Spencer doesn't.

Of course, Carlton has known it from day one. When he and Victoria were still trying to work through the problems in their relationship (ninety-eight percent of which had started with the sex part, and were completely his fault...he should never have told her, if he could take back one thing in his life it would be That Night), he didn't try to kid himself about his attraction to men. But he loved Victoria, and he had truly believed that he could do his husbandly duty and be good to her and they could make it work. Because he believed in their vows. Marriage _meant_ something, and keeping the promises he had made were more important to him than hooking up with any man. She didn't believe it, but he wanted a family: Christmas cards and a minivan and picking school systems, the whole deal, and he didn't see how he could have that any other way.

And Victoria...Victoria was kind and hard-working and good, really _good_, she deserved a better man than he was. But he thought one day, if he tried his hardest, he could maybe get close.

(_Look at me, Carlton._)

He had tried his hardest and it hadn't worked, it had all fallen apart over an agonizing two and a half years. She couldn't get past the sex part, and he couldn't blame her. It wasn't her fault, nothing was, because how could she live with a lie that eclipsed their entire lives? It had started with That Night and ended with both their hearts broken, and he would never forgive himself.

(_Why can't you look at me?_)

Then Spencer had shown up, all surfer-dude handsome with those eyes and that chin, and had almost-_almost_-made him forget about Victoria.

And that made him feel like the lowest creature on the planet.

That Spencer had the whole station snowed annoyed him, but what really upset him was his own reaction to Spencer's constant wisecracking; his stupid Malibu Ken hair; his elaborate, prancing gyrations. Not to mention what was obviously a very nice body under all those layers. And it was like Spencer was feeding on the responses he struggled to hide. No matter what Carlton did to avoid him, Spencer was there - sidling up to him when Carlton least expected it, crawling into his lap, running enthusiastic hands through Carlton's hair. He hated it. He hated it because he liked it, and because even then, even after almost two years separated from Victoria, it felt like dishonor.

Yet he couldn't help putting his hands on Spencer when Spencer was nearby. Lust and anger, anger and lust. He had wanted to wipe the smug expression off Spencer's face, wanted to shove him into the wall hard enough to make him realize that the entire damn world didn't kowtow to his supposed psychic abilities. And it infuriated him more than he could tolerate that he craved the feeling of Spencer's shoulders beneath his hands, of Spencer wriggling against him as he hauled him away from a crime scene.

Lust and anger, anger and lust. And encompassing everything, the shame of his failed marriage.

He spent a lot of time at the range during the first six months Spencer was there. It cleared his head, helped him think, worked out his anger. He wasn't an irrational man. He knew, deep down, that he didn't hate Spencer. He wasn't entirely sure, though that he didn't hate himself. Because he hated that he didn't want Victoria. Hated that he wanted men. Hated most of all that he wanted, of all people, Spencer.

Something had happened, though, during that first year. Spencer still drove him insane, with his teeth and tan and perpetual bullshit, but Carlton had gotten used to him. Maybe more than used to him. Maybe even liked him a little.

And that made it easier to accept that Carlton really wants to sleep with him.

He isn't confused about his own feelings, now. He no longer hates himself, at least not most days, and even his ulcer has calmed down. But he's sure as shit confused about Spencer's.

Carlton is nothing if not practical. He knows that it makes no sense, Spencer and he, that he would likely end up tearing Spencer's face off within a month if they spent more time together than they did already. More than that, he knows Spencer would never want someone like him. Spencer is rumpled and careless and cool, and Carlton is...well, Carlton accepted himself a long time ago. He likes himself, even if other people don't.

It no longer infuriates him that his body responds to Spencer's perpetual groping. It no longer shames him that he jerks off at night to thoughts of Spencer's mouth, his skin, his admittedly sexy ass.

What pisses him off was that he can't tell if Spencer wants him, too.

Every time Spencer's fingers skate over his neck, every time he wraps his arms around Carlton's waist and coos into his ear, Carlton's stomach flips over with something that feels suspiciously like hope. Then Spencer darts away again without a backward glance, disappears for days and sometimes weeks at a time, and Carlton sinks into a mire of doubt and anger.

_That_ is frustrating.

He had decided months ago that the best thing to do was ignore it. Spencer is Spencer, and a year and a half has proven that Carlton isn't going to be able to bully him out of acting like himself (although he isn't about to stop trying). He thought he had been doing a relatively good job.

And now this.

Carlton watches the brake lights on Spencer's bike slow at the four-way stop, turn, disappear around the block. What had just happened?

That look on Spencer's face.

He wouldn't look at Carlton. His expression was all eyes, big hurt scared sad eyes. Mouth still and silent, for once not vomiting nonsense. The bandage over his right ear, tape peeling a little at the edges although the dressing looked new, hiding the nick from Carlton's bullet. And then he had said something. What?

Don't get lost.

But it had been Spencer who looked lost, even as he reached for Carlton and pressed both palms to Carlton's chest. And Carlton had frozen, his heart picking up speed, feeling himself immediately harden, just like he always does when Spencer touches him. But it was wrong, no, this wasn't playful or affectionate or sexual, this was Spencer like Carlton had never seen him, this was Spencer breaking.

He tried to be careful, because although he isn't as smart or as quick as Spencer he suspects that Spencer is very good at hiding his real feelings behind glibness and idiocy. He tried to be careful but Spencer saw it anyway, saw Carlton's hesitation, and in that instant his hazel eyes went lucid. He looked straight at Carlton, and Carlton saw horror and embarrassment and shame, and that was worse than the hurt. He pulled his hands away from Carlton and ran like hell.

Carlton slams the door shut and locks it. He feels something twist in his chest, something that hurts more than months and years of pent-up rage and self-hatred. Spencer doesn't take anything seriously, but he is as resilient as a cockroach because of it, and seeing him look like that makes Carlton feel like the world is tilting on its axis.

Of course...

Of course, just because Spencer doesn't take anything seriously doesn't mean he _can't_ take anything seriously. Obviously, he's capable of emotions Carlton hasn't given him credit for having.

Carlton falls onto the couch and runs a hand over his face. He should do something about this. Maybe he should have called after Spencer.

But Carlton has never been very good at following cues, or at knowing the right thing to do in situations where feelings are involved. He just knows that the look in Spencer's eyes will be carved on his memory for as long as he lives.

Why? Because of the Rourke thing? Because he had watched Carlton shoot a man in the head? Rourke was a bad guy and although Carlton has the same unsettled feeling he'd had the last time he shot someone, he knows he did the right thing. Because he had seen Rourke's finger move on the trigger and if he hadn't acted then, Gus would have died.

Oh.

Carlton feels dull and slow. Of course. Gus.

Carlton picks up his phone from the coffee table and turns it over in his hands. O'Hara is a hyperemotional sap, which is why she'll know what to do. He scrolls to her number and hits Send.

She answers on the second ring. "O'Hara."

"It's Lassiter." Clipped, curt. Like always.

"Oh, hi!" Her professional tone melts into delight, _God_ is she perky. "How are you?" As though they hadn't just seen each other five hours ago.

"I'm..." He pauses. "_I'm_ fine."

She obviously hears the emphasis, because she immediately sounds concerned. "What's wrong? Please don't tell me someone else has been kidnapped."

"No. Nothing like that." Another pause. "I was hoping we could discuss...or rather, I was wondering if you could advise me..." He takes a breath. "I think Spencer is upset."

There's a long silence on the other end, then "What?"

"I said, I think-"

"I heard you." O'Hara interrupts him. "I just wasn't expecting...Since when are you concerned about how Shawn feels?"

"Since whenever," Carlton snaps. "I just need to know what to do about it."

"Um." O'Hara sounds genuinely confused. "Have you tried to talk to him?"

That should be obvious. "No."

"Do you want _me_ to talk to him?"

Carlton feels an immediate, almost physical response to her question. "No!" he blurts. He hasn't forgotten Spencer's infatuation with O'Hara - in fact, he isn't quite sure Spencer isn't still infatuated with her. The last thing he wants is O'Hara turning into Spencer's goddamn shoulder to cry on.

"Oookay." O'Hara draws the word out, managing to sound at once annoyed and slightly hurt. "Carlton, I want to help you, I really do, but I'm not totally sure what you actually want."

"Just..." Carlton stops. What does he want, exactly? He wants Spencer to...feel better, he supposes, even though that seems trite and girly and so very, very gay. But he also wants to be the one to make Spencer feel better. It's selfish, he supposes, because he probably _should_ want Spencer to feel better in any way possible, even if that way is talking to O'Hara.

Still, it was Carlton's doorbell Spencer had rung, not O'Hara's, or McNab's, or even Guster's (although he suspects that Guster's doorbell has been rung so much in the past three days that he disconnected it and Spencer was forced to find other doorbells to ring). And that makes Carlton feel kind of...not possessive, exactly, but maybe a little protective. Of Spencer. Which is a really stupid way to feel, because what's he trying to prove, anyway? To Spencer or anyone else? How compassionate he is? What a good guy he is, on the inside? No one would fall for that.

But that look on Spencer's face.

"Carlton?" Annoyed has overridden hurt, and now there's a splash of impatience in O'Hara's tone, as well.

"I'm here." He clears his throat. "I'm sorry, O'Hara. I don't think your assistance is actually required. Thank you for your willingness to help, though."

He hears her loud, exasperated exhalation. "You are incorrigible, Carlton." She hangs up without saying goodbye.

Carlton puts the phone back on the coffee table. Debates for a full fifteen minutes whether to call Spencer or not.

He waits too long, and decides on not.


	3. Does No One Know?

Title: Losing My Mind: a fic in five parts (III. Does No One Know?)

Author: Jane Westin

Pairing: Shawn/Carlton

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.

Notes: This is my warm-up (ie, first time writing slash, first time writing Psych fics). Please forgive the lack of plot; I had to get used to the characters before I could think about giving them a murder to solve. I think I know them well enough to put in a little more storyline next time. Thank you for reading!

"Sleepytime."

"Candy Cane Lane."

"Sleepytime!"

"Candy Cane Lane!"

"_Sleepy-"_

Carlton slams down the file he's working on and stands up. "Will you two shut up!" he barks.

Two pairs of round eyes - one hazel, one brown - swing toward him. Identical surprised expressions - the result, no doubt, of palling around together for three decades.

"Lassie." Spencer leans toward Carlton's desk. "Gus says that Candy Cane Lane isn't the best Celestial Seasoning. Tell him he's wrong. _Pleeeease."_

Carlton sits back down, opens the file, uses it to block out Spencer's wheedling expression. "Some of us are trying to work."

Guster's voice. "Shawn. Candy Cane Lane is a holiday edition. It isn't even standard issue. Sleepytime comes in regular, Extra, Sinus Soother, Throat Tamer, Vanilla Herbal, _and _Decaf Lemon Jasmine Green. A demand for variety within the same flavor of tea _clearly_ indicates superiority. Plus, Candy Cane Lane smells like bathroom cleaner."

"First of all." Spencer plucks the file from Carlton's hands and tucks it behind the computer. "I call shenanigans on two of those sub-Sleepytimes. Vanilla Herbal and Decaf Lemon Jasmine Green aren't even Sleepytime-flavored, they're Vanilla Herbal and Decaf Lemon Jasmine-flavored. Secondly-"

"Oh my _God_." Carlton puts his head in his hands. "Don't you two have anything better to do than hover around my desk and have asinine conversations?"

Guster smirks. "I _had_ better things to do. Shawn called all my clients and told them I was out with Tahitian flu. He said the Chief had a case for us."

Which makes exactly no sense to Carlton, because the Chief isn't even in - something about a child care conference, which seems like a fru-fru waste of time to Carlton.

Spencer is a liar, but why would he lie about that?

It had been disconcerting enough to show up at work and find Spencer and Guster already there. Usually they rolled in sometime in the early afternoon, both looking as though they had spend the morning sipping margaritas on the beach, even though Guster claims to have some kind of job in pharmaceuticals. Adding to Carlton's confusion is the fact that Spencer looks completely, entirely, one hundred percent normal. He's certain he hadn't imagined the scene on the porch last night, but Spencer is acting like absolutely nothing is, or ever had been, wrong.

Carlton hardly slept all night and Spencer doesn't even have the decency to look tired.

Of course, this means that Spencer is feeling better, which is what Carlton wanted. Even if it does throw his personal equilibrium to to have Spencer so needy one moment and so irritating the next. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Spencer isn't using his glib facade to hide any complicated feelings. Maybe beneath the glib facade is just...glibness.

He supposes, then, that he can go back to hiding hard-ons at the office like he usually does.

Unless...

Carlton leans closer to his computer screen. Makes a "harrumph" noise and wrinkles his forehead, as though he's upset at an email. Then (with a little more flourish than is perhaps required), he stands, straightens his tie, smooths his hands over his jacket, and moves around his desk. Away from Spencer and Guster.

And just like he suspects will happen, Spencer is on his feet and at Carlton's shoulder before Carlton has gotten two steps away from his desk. "Where ya going, Lassie?" His words are playful; his tone is not. When Carlton glances back, he can see the line of worry on Spencer's forehead.

Aha.

Okay, so it's a bonkers idea. It's neurotic and needy and of course not sustainable at all, the Tahitian flu is symptomatic for a max of, like, four days. More than that and people might suspect Gus needs to be hospitalized. Or take FMLA. And Shawn isn't prepared to forge that much paperwork. Plus, Shawn is beginning to think that maybe there aren't, after all, secret little sleeping pods in the ceiling of the police station that you can use if you have to stay at work for longer than six hours.

But he's feeling kind of neurotic and needy, so it seems appropriate to have a matching plan. Which is, namely, to do everything he can to gather everyone he can in one place and do a kind of _Dawn of the Dead _thing, where they make a fortress out of a shopping mall. Or in this case, a police station. Because although no one can prove that there are zombies out there (Shawn strongly suspects there are, but Gus is steadfast in his refusal to hang around cemeteries or abandoned gas stations at night to see for sure), there definitely are people, and Things, and most terrifyingly of all there are people with Things, and those are dangerous. Those can grab your best friend and put him in the trunk of a car and then point...other Things...at his head, and _oh, Lassie, I don't think I should ever leave your side ever. Because I am scared and little and you are big and strong and besides, you really need someone to lighten you up. And maybe buy you some different shoes, because those are really awful._

This weird feeling, this unsettling need to hibernate in a hole (police station, whatever) with everyone he loves, is actually kind of upsetting. Shawn is used to going wherever, whenever, without a thought about surroundings or safety or those weird little gremlins his dad calls "consequences." Now, though, he feels a buzz of paranoia whenever he sets foot outside. Every pretty girl who winks at Gus on the sidewalk has TNT strapped to her chest, every Prius speeding by is aiming for Henry, every shady-looking construction worker and businessman and hot dog salesman Jules talks to has an equally shady-looking buddy staking out her apartment, and pretty much everyone in Santa Barbara wants to kill Lassie.

Shawn isn't great with introspection, but it does strike him as a little strange that he hadn't had this feeling after the forty-three or so times he himself had had a gun pointed at his head. Okay, maybe forty-three is a bit of an exaggeration. The point remains, though, that he likes himself and he _really_ likes his personal safety, so why hadn't he ever felt this scary, insecure, everyone's-out-to-kill-everyone feeling before?

He's trying to distract Gus from figuring out his crappy cover story, but since they'd gotten to the station at eight and by nine-fifteen had already discussed-slash-fought about-in order-most badass video game avatars, discontinued breakfast cereals, old versus new John Cusack, old versus new Joan Cusack, whether or not Shawn could best Alcide in a non-shifting fistfight (consensus: no), and tea flavors, Shawn isn't sure how long it's going to last. Eventually, Gus will figure out that the Chief isn't in (a child care conference is safe, though, surely), there is no new case, and the entire goal of the day is to hang around Lassie and Juliet and not let anyone die. Henry is even going to be here, because Shawn plans to need a ride home at around eleven, and Shawn is very good at stalling. He wanted Henry to show up first thing in the morning, but he knows that Henry would stoutly refuse to give up his morning gardening, no matter how dire the circumstances.

But then Lassie makes that weird little throat-clearing noise he always makes when he's about to lie, and gets all shifty-eyed, and then gets up from his desk and starts walking away like he's leaving. Leaving! He can't leave! Shawn has to keep an eye on him all the time always!

He hops up, scuttles after Lassie, plucks at his sleeve. "Where ya going, Lassie?" Hoping to sound playful and fun, because that's what he is: playful! Fun!

"Out. I have to check on some things for a...case." Lassiter flicks a glance back at Shawn but doesn't break stride at all, he's heading for the door, and Shawn is getting increasingly panicky. Gus watches Shawn with mild interest for a moment, then starts to put his iPad and notes into his briefcase. Gus is going back to work and Lassie is going Out and his plan is crumbling and this is bad, bad, bad.

"Lassie." His hand closes on Lassiter's arm just above the elbow and he doesn't mean to clamp down so hard, but in any case it stops Lassiter in his tracks. Lassiter's eyes are like Ice Breakers gum only chillier and bluer, and for once Shawn can't read his expression at all.

"Spencer." Lassie's voice is careful, even, but Shawn catches the little question mark at the end.

For a split second Shawn's mind goes totally, horrifyingly blank. Just like last night, but then it comes back to him, the thing he wants Lassie to know but doesn't want to have to tell him.

"I feel like Jim Carrey in _The Truman Show 2."_

Lassiter blinks, and for a moment he loses his controlled expression. "Spencer, there was no _Truman Show 2._"

"I know that, Lassie." Shawn lets go of Lassie's arm, since it doesn't look like he's going to bolt. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gus get up, aim a little wave in Shawn's direction, and head to the door. Shawn sighs. So much for his plan.

But the panic is receding, now that he's close to Lassie, and so he feels like he can explain.

"You know the end, where he says 'In case I don't see you, good afternoon, good evening-'"

"'-and good night.' I've seen the movie, Spencer, where is this going?" Lassiter's words are impatient, but he's turned to fully face Shawn, and if Shawn didn't know better, he would think that he has Lassiter's undivided attention.

Shawn takes a moment, head to the side, to consider that Lassiter is still so capable of surprising him. Then: "And he goes out into the real world, and he looks so happy, but they never show what he felt like a week later."

Lassiter's quiet, listening, watching Shawn, and Shawn feels even more like a bug under a microscope. He shifts awkwardly, puts his hands in his pockets, looks down at the floor. "And I just feel like...I had everything I needed, you know, and I didn't know anything about anything, and then I found out that nothing was what it seemed and everyone was in on the joke but me..." His voice catches a little and he realizes, to his horror, that his eyes are burning.

Lassiter doesn't say anything, doesn't make any snarky comments. He just takes Shawn by the arm and leads him out of the bullpen, into the little conference room that no one ever uses. Closes the door. Leans against it. Waits.

Shawn takes a deep breath. "I forgot what I was saying." Which never happens to him. _Never_.

Lassiter's voice is quiet as he repeats Shawn's last words. "Everyone was in on the joke but you."

"Yeah. Right." Shawn laughs, and it sounds unconvincing even to his ears. "So. And that was okay, actually, everyone being in on the joke, because it still meant that there _was_ a joke, and the dome was still there, and I didn't have to go anywhere. Except I did, because Meryl wasn't Meryl, she was actually Hannah, and Hannah had a family outside the dome and so sometimes she left and I had no idea what was out there." Shawn takes a deep breath. He's getting a little confused about whether he's describing his own feelings or just recounting the plot of the movie, but Lassiter's eyes are focused on him and just on him, and okay, that's _really_ what Shawn wants all the time always. "And so, you know, I go out there, and all of a sudden it's all this _stuff._" Another pause. "And it's not safe any more, Lassie. Nothing's safe. There's all this stuff, and I can't keep anyone safe from it because it's huge and scary, it's not just a dome and it's not just me, it's bigger than me, and I'm not good enough, Lassie. I'm not good enough to keep anyone safe."

There are tears on his face.

Shawn read somewhere that men don't produce as many tears, that they don't cry like women cry. He wants to call shenanigans on that too, because he's definitely crying and there are definitely tears and there are definitely a lot of them. And he's humiliated and ashamed because he's crying in front of Lassiter, of _Lassiter,_ whom he adores, whose attention he tries to capture every single damn day, about whom he has regular fantasies involving handcuffs and cut-off T-shirts and a Cobra Commando mask.

Shawn sags, finally. He drops into a chair at the teeny tiny conference table and puts his head in his hands and breathes hard and deep until he's in control again. He hadn't heard the door open or close, but he's no longer sure if Lassie is in the room. Probably he had bolted as soon as Shawn turned away.

No, he hadn't.

He hadn't, and Shawn knows it, because he suddenly feels Lassiter's hands on him. This time, though, they aren't grabbing or shoving or forcing him into the back of a squad car. This time, Lassiter's fingers settle lightly onto Shawn's shoulders, careful and steady and so, so warm. Shawn lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He makes a little noise, doesn't mean to, and he hears the catch in Lassiter's breath.

The door opens.

In a split second, Lassiter's hands are gone. Juliet sticks her head in, already halfway through her sentence when she sees them. "Carlton, are you in here? I have-" and she breaks off. Her gaze travels from Shawn, who hasn't had time to rearrange his expression into anything resembling normal, to Lassiter, who is almost to the door. "Oh."

"I'll be at my desk," Lassiter says shortly. She shoots him a confused, disgruntled look as he shoves past her in his hurry to get out of the room.

Juliet stares at Shawn. Shawn stares at Juliet.

"Um," she says.

"Yeah," Shawn replies, for lack of anything better to say.

Juliet glances behind her, presumably at Lassiter's retreating back, then comes all the way into the room and closes the door. She sits down next to Shawn.

"You okay?" she asks quietly. She puts a hand on Shawn's arm and it's nice because it's Juliet, and four days ago he would have been excited because if she touched him it might have meant she liked him and it _also_ might have meant she wanted to sleep with him, but something changed yesterday and all he wants now is the warmth of Lassiter's palms on his shoulders.

So he smiles at her, and pats her hand, and says "Yep, all better now," and follows Lassiter out.


	4. The Mourning Ends

Title: Losing My Mind: a fic in five parts (IV. The Mourning Ends)

Author: Jane Westin

Pairing: Shawn/Carlton

Rating: NC17

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.

Notes: This is my warm-up (ie, first time writing slash, first time writing Psych fics). Please forgive the lack of plot; I had to get used to the characters before I could think about giving them a murder to solve. I think I know them well enough to put in a little more storyline next time. Thank you for reading!

It's weird.

Over a month has passed since Gus was kidnapped, since that night on Lassiter's porch and the surreal day after it. Shawn had thought he'd be over it by now. Or rather, Shawn had thought he'd be over the Lassiter thing by now. He's had time to think about it, and he's come to three conclusions.

One. He likes Lassiter. He already knew that, of course, has known it for nineteen months and three days, but after six first dates in as many weeks, he's beginning to accept that he is going to have stop ignoring it. He isn't interested in Theo, or Chad, or Rebecca, or even that saucy little redhead who sunbathes near the boardwalk in a barely-there bikini every Saturday morning. If he's ever going to get past Lassiter and be able to enjoy dates (not to mention sex) again, he's going to have to say something.

Two. Lassiter doesn't like him. There isn't much else to it. Lassiter has pretty much ignored him since Shawn spilled his guts in the conference room. Shawn tries not to think about that day, because every time he does, he gets a sick, embarrassed feeling in his stomach. He cried, for churros' sake, and he never cries. Never. Except maybe during _E.T._, but he's not a _robot._

But the fact remains that he pretty much humiliated himself in front of Lassiter, did the grown-up equivalent of snorting chocolate milk out of your nose in front of the prettiest girl in class, and he doesn't think he'll ever forgive himself for it. He thought, for a moment after Lassiter had left the conference room, that Lassiter's hands on his shoulders meant Lassiter forgave him his little meltdown, and that made Shawn feel like maybe things might be okay. But Lassiter hasn't even really talked to him since then, so Shawn figures that this time, he's lost so much face that he just isn't worth talking to.

Three. Three isn't much except that one and two are utterly irreconcilable.

Shawn leans back in his desk chair and flicks another pencil at the ceiling. He's made it through almost half a pack already, eight new number twos in a tight cluster above his head. Gus is going to be _pissed._

Although it's Saturday, his day to lie around and consume only food purchased from boardwalk cart vendors, he kind of wishes he had something to do. He's made it through three movies on TBS already, and none of them were super.

One. Two. One. Two. One. Two. He passes his phone from hand to hand. Number Three hangs over his head, as ominous as a thundercloud.

He scrolls through his contacts, clicks on Lassiter's name, opens a blank text message. Quickly taps out _whatchu doin_. Deletes it. Retypes it. Then hits Send, before he can change his mind.

Realizing he's just going to check his messages over and over if he keeps his phone within arm's reach, he slides it under the couch. A second later, he's flat on his stomach on the floor to retrieve it. He checks his messages over and over for the next fifteen minutes, until Lassiter texts back.

_Just finished a Historical Society meeting._

A moment later, another text: _Why?_

Why indeed?

His thumbs fly. _im bored at offc want 2 hang out_

There's a five-minute pause and Shawn chews his lips and picks his cuticles and spins on his chair. When the text message alert goes off, his heart almost stops.

_Sure._

Shawn feels like whooping with joy. He wastes no time texting back: _ur place or mine? ;P_

_You=idiot. Be there 1hr._

For the next forty minutes, Shawn is a whirlwind. He's never cleaned so much in his life and he's really glad he lives in his office - two birds with one stone. By the time he's done, the place is sparkling. He, on the other hand, is a disgusting mess: sweaty and reeking and smudged with dust. He takes the world's fastest shower, pulls on a fresh shirt, and when he comes back into the office Lassiter is leaning against his desk and whoa.

Whoa.

Lassiter isn't in jeans, he would never think of wearing jeans, but he's in flat-front khakis Shawn would never have expected him to wear and a blue striped button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up, and -

"Lassie, are those _boots?_" Shawn is delighted. Maybe Lassie doesn't need his help buying shoes after all.

Lassiter pulls himself up, narrows his eyes at Shawn. "Spencer, I am fully capable of - just because I -" He frowns. "Yes. They're boots."

"Sexy." Shawn can't stop smiling. He has that balloon feeling again, but this time it's not bad, not bad at all, this time he is all elation and butterflies.

Lassiter gives him a sidelong glance. "You should lock your door."

Lassie's right, he should, but if he had, maybe Lassiter wouldn't have walked in, maybe he would have tried the door and found it locked and left, and then Shawn wouldn't be feeling like he could float up, up, and away.

He drops onto the couch and pats the cushion next to him. "They're about to show _Jurassic Park_, how do you feel about dinosaurs?"

Lassiter eases himself onto the couch next to Shawn. Sits stiffly, hands in his lap, back straight. He looks as though he can't quite figure out what he's doing there.

So Shawn decides to show him.

Maybe it's the adrenaline from seeing Lassiter, from realizing he's actually there in his living room and he's speaking to Shawn after all, maybe it's the fact that Lassiter dressed up to come see him - yes, he's sure of it, and he can see the slight blush of razor burn on Lassiter's jaw that tells him Lassiter shaved right before he came over - but he suddenly has a rush of courage that he's never had before. He half rolls, half launches himself, planting his hands on Lassiter's shoulders and swinging one leg up and over Lassiter so he's straddling him. He catches a glimpse of startled blue eyes just before he plants his mouth solidly on Lassiter's.

He feels Lassiter freeze up beneath him and for a moment he is terrified, has he made a huge mistake?-and then shockingly, wondrously, Lassie is kissing him back. He feels Lassiter's hands come up and settle against his sides, feels Lassie pulling him closer. Feels, through the trendy khakis, Lassiter hard against him.

_Oh._

A hot rush of air as Lassie groans against his mouth, low and barely audible. Rocks against him. One hand slides around to Shawn's back and the other one reaches up to cup the back of Shawn's neck and Shawn is almost too stunned to be turned on, because Lassie is kissing him like he's drowning, like he's been waiting for this for as long as Shawn has.

Shawn slides his hands up to either side of Lassie's face and marvels at the feeling of Lassie's skin beneath his fingertips, of the curve of his jaw, of the way he sucks in air when Shawn lightly thumbs his earlobe. Lassie's limbs are long and the couch is deep, and after a few minutes Shawn's hips start to hurt from trying to keep himself pressed against Lassiter. Reluctantly, he pulls back.

Lassiter's eyes are closed; his cheeks are flushed, and his breath is coming in uneven gulps. He doesn't say anything when Shawn shifts backwards, but his hands slide to Shawn's waist and stay there. Shawn can feel his thumbs moving just a little, lightly burrowing into Shawn's skin.

After a moment he speaks, eyes still closed. "Spencer."

Shawn swallows hard. "I spent the past five minutes straddling your boner, dude. You can call me Shawn."

At that, Lassiter opens his eyes. He gives Shawn a look that Shawn imagines is supposed to look intimidating but is all dangerous-sexy instead. But his hands stay where they are, and, in fact, his fingers actually tighten a little.

"Was that weird?" Shawn asks, and suddenly he can't look at Lassie because he's afraid of what the answer will be. He hoists himself off Lassiter's lap, groaning a little when his hip pops in protest, and drops onto the couch beside Lassie.

Lassie drops a hand onto Shawn's thigh, just above the knee. "Do you want it to be weird?" He sounds thoughtful, not abrasive or snide at all. Shawn isn't used to hearing that tone from Lassiter.

"No," Shawn responds promptly. "I liked it."

Shawn feels Lassiter's fingers tighten momentarily on his thigh. "Me too."

It takes sixteen seconds for Shawn to work up the courage to slide his hand over Lassiter's. He sneaks a look at Lassiter out of the corner of his eye and finds, to his amusement, that Lassie is looking at him sidelong too.

"There could be more where that came from?" Shawn ventures, and is rewarded by Lassie's quiet chuckle.

"I'll hold you to that, Spencer." A pause. "Shawn."

"Maybe..." Another quick glance. "Some dinosaurs, for right now?"

"Yeah." Lassie squeezes his leg again. "Dinosaurs sound good."


	5. The Sun Comes Up

Title: Losing My Mind: a fic in five parts (V. The Sun Comes Up)

Author: Jane Westin

Pairing: Shawn/Carlton

Rating: NC17

Disclaimer: Not mine. Never mine.

Notes: This is my warm-up (ie, first time writing slash, first time writing Psych fics). Please forgive the lack of plot; I had to get used to the characters before I could think about giving them a murder to solve. I think I know them well enough to put in a little more storyline next time. Thank you for reading!

It's nice to see that sometimes questions get answered, after all.

Carlton is just starting to wonder what's going on when Spencer abruptly lands in his lap. He sees Spencer's lips part for a fraction of a second, and Spencer is kissing him.

Carlton takes a moment to reflect that this is a rather nice surprise, and then he kisses Spencer back.

And oh, now he understands why Victoria couldn't stay with him. Because this is what kissing is supposed to be like and has never been before. Heat and electricity; he's shaking, alive, everything feels real for the first time in his life. His chest is tight and his head is whirling and he wants Spencer.

He exhales hard when Spencer pulls away. Keeps his eyes closed because this might never happen again, Spencer against his lips, between his hands. "Spencer," he says, sighs it really, because he can't believe what's happening and is already mourning its loss. This has to be a mistake.

Spencer makes some smartass remark, as usual, and Carlton opens his eyes because he's afraid he's going to regret this after all, but the look on Spencer's face stops him from getting embarrassed or angry.

"Was that weird?" Trepidation, almost fear, as Spencer hauls himself off Carlton's lap and drops heavily on to the couch.

A reasonable question, and because Spencer is afraid its's okay that Carlton is too.

"Do you want it to be weird?" Carlton replies. He's not sure what he means by that, but Spencer exhales when he says it, and the muscles of his leg relax under Carlton's hand.

"No, I liked it," Spencer says immediately, and Carlton feels a rush of relief.

"Me too," he admits, and he's sure he'll hear about this later, sure that Spencer will throw it in his face, but it's worth it, for now.

_Jurassic Park. _Carlton thinks it's an odd choice for a first date - because he's pretty sure that's what this is, now - but Spencer likes dinosaurs and it's fine even though Carlton thinks anything that isn't a historical documentary is a waste of time. And actually it's nice, it's really really really nice, having Spencer next to him. Spencer is warm and solid and he seems to think that he's a kitten or something, because he keeps scooting closer and closer to Carlton until he's almost in Carlton's lap. Eventually Carlton puts an arm around his shoulders, and when he does, Spencer makes a little noise that's almost a purr and snuggles even closer.

"Laaaassie," he sighs.

That kind of does it.

Carlton takes his arm off Spencer's shoulders, pushes Spencer up and away. Before Spencer can form any words to match his expression of sudden disappointment, Carlton takes him by the arms.

"Do you have an actual bed in this weird apartment?" he growls.

Spencer's eyes widen. He opens his mouth and squeaks. Finally: "I have a bed," he says, barely a whisper.

"Well." Carlton leans forward, grazes his lips across Spencer's. "Let's find it," he murmurs.

Spencer is standing almost as soon as the words are out of Carlton's mouth and he has Carlton's hand in his.

"Right this way, sir," he says.

He leads Carlton back through a little hallway and opens the door, and Carlton is surprised. He'd expected Spencer's bedroom to be cluttered and messy, a slacker's hovel, but the bed is made and there are books neatly stacked on the shelves and there is almost nothing on the walls.

Carlton takes Spencer by the shoulders, spins him around, and kisses him hard. Pushes him backwards, one slow step at a time, until Spencer's calves are against the bed. One little push and Spencer is timbering backward, hitting the bed, pulling Carlton down with him.

Spencer pulls his lips away from Carlton's long enough to gasp, "Lassie."

The moment Spencer's lips left his, Carlton began trailing them along Spencer's neck, and he doesn't stop even as he replies "What?"

"Are you..." Spencer sucks air. "...totally sure about this?"

Carlton pulls away, on all fours over Spencer, and looks him straight in the eye. "Don't insult my judgment, Spencer," he warns. He reaches down with his right hand and curls his fingers firmly around the bulge in Spencer's jeans, shuddering when he hears Spencer's moan-more of a shout, really-of surprise.

"Never again, Lassie," Spencer promises, and his voice is shaking.

Carlton pushes himself up, kneeling over Spencer, and starts to unbutton his shirt. When Spencer starts to sit up, reaching for Carlton, Carlton bats his hands away and gently pushes him back down.

"Wait," he says.

Slow coil of heat in Carlton's lower stomach: Spencer wants him. He never thought Spencer would look at him like that.

Carlton unbuttons the last button. Shrugs out of his shirt. Tosses it into the corner of Spencer's room. He turns his attention to his belt, and hisses quietly when Spencer's hands firmly take his wrists.

"Let me," Spencer says, and Carlton lets him.

Careful, deliberate, not at all like the flailing lunatic he usually is. Spencer's fingers are deft and clever, unbuckling Carlton's belt and unbuttoning his pants in one swift movement. The coil tightens in Carlton's stomach; he thinks he has never been this hard in his life. He sways when he feels Spencer's hands flatten against his sides and slide down, tucking beneath the waistband of his boxers, his thumbs meeting just above Carlton's pubic bone.

Spencer slides him out of the boxers and a split-second later, his hand is around Carlton's erection. Carlton sees stars, has to put one hand out to steady himself against the headboard. His chest is tight and his breath is coming in gasps.

"Spencer. Jesus." As Spencer's hand starts to move.

His eyes refocus. Spencer's eyes are hypnotizing: pupils dilated, glints of gold flashing in the blue-grey at the periphery of his irises. Spencer's hand is moving, but his eyes are on Carlton's face. Hungry. For Carlton.

Suddenly a smile, brilliant, dazzling.

"Lassie," Spencer says, and his voice is shockingly steady, shockingly real. "You are so _hot_."

Carlton has enough time to take a breath, he intends to reply, but then Spencer's mouth descends onto him _(oh dear lord) _and steals any words he might have tried to form. Hot and wet, lips tight, tongue moving artfully, and oh sweet Justice it feels good. There is a rush of cold air on his wet skin and Carlton groans as Spencer pulls back, _don't stop don't stop_, only for a moment before he feels Spencer's hand release and fall away and abruptly Spencer is taking him deep, so deep, that Carlton can only tremble and gasp and try to stay upright. Spencer's hands are on his hips now, keeping Carlton steady, keeping Carlton close.

Carlton lets his free hand fall to Spencer's head, not grasping, not demanding. He focuses on keeping it relaxed even though he wants nothing more than to curl his fingers into the thick waves of Spencer's hair. He tries to hold off, tries to make it last, but it feels too good and it's been too long and soon enough he is shaking, shuddering, and Spencer is swallowing and coughing and finally, as Carlton starts to soften, pulling away.

Carlton lets himself fall forward, breathing hard, lands on his hands and knees. He rolls off Spencer, puts his head on Spencer's shoulder, his mouth against Spencer's neck.

"Jesus, Spencer," he says again.

"I prefer just Spencer," Spencer replies, "although I'm glad you can admit that what I just did was pretty miraculous." His arms come up and encircle Carlton, hands moving gently over Carlton's shoulders and back.

"Just shut up, Shawn," Carlton kisses Spencer directly on the mouth, tasting himself on Spencer, feeling Spencer stiffen in surprise beneath him.

"'Kay," he murmurs against Carlton's mouth.

It takes a few minutes, but by the time Spencer starts to deepen his kisses, starts to moan and writhe against him, Carlton is almost fully recovered. He lets his hand travel over Spencer's T-shirt, under it, across the warm, firm planes of Spencer's skin. He stops briefly, fingers splayed across Spencer's stomach, feeling the muscles quiver beneath him, feeling Spencer's deep, shaky breaths. Feeling the pulse beating against his palm. Feeling everything.

"Take this off," he growls into Spencer's ear, and immediately Spencer is sitting up, stripping the shirt off and away, reaching up for Carlton's face and drawing him close.

"These too," Carlton adds, plucking at Spencer's jeans, and Spencer obeys. He stops kissing Carlton long enough to smirk.

"What else would you like me to do, Detective?" Playful eyes. That tone he always uses when he's trying to get under Carlton's skin.

Had he wanted Carlton that whole time?

Carlton doesn't reply, just props himself on his elbow and looks at Spencer. Lets his eyes move slowly, slowly over Spencer's body. Strong shoulders and chest, although it doesn't really look as though he exercises regularly. Smooth, compact stomach, rising and falling a little quicker than normal. Trail of reddish-brown hair from his navel. And his erection, curving up and slightly to the left, twitching just a little with each quavering breath.

Carlton exhales softly. Feels that rush of protectiveness again, because Spencer is here, and he's naked, and he's turned on, and it's because of Carlton.

Spencer shifts a little under Carlton's gaze. "Lassie," he says, trying to catch Carlton's eye. "You okay, man?"

Carlton looks at Spencer, at the little crease of worry on his forehead, the expression of trepidation he's trying to hide.

"Better than okay," he replies, and kisses Spencer hard. He takes a minute to kick off the pants he's still wearing, and his socks, and he rolls on top of Spencer.

He works his way across Spencer's chest and down his stomach, taking his time, lips and fingers and Spencer moaning and panting beneath him. Spencer is running his mouth, stream-of-consciousness chatter he can't seem to quell. "Oh Lassie right there right there Lassie oh better than Saturday morning cartoons Saturday pancakes waffles hot sauce hot hot Lassie oh every time you grab me oh fuck Lassie fuck you're so hot blue eyes I want-" and on and on, until Carlton shuts him up. Wraps his lips around Spencer's cock and "oh fuck Lassie Lassssiiiieeee..." the last word a long exhaled moan and then it's just noises, no words at all. Carlton hasn't done this for a long time, has never been particularly confident about his technique, but Spencer doesn't seem to mind. Carlton breathes through his nose, Spencer smells like soap and skin and sex and he's never smelled anything more appealing in his life.

For all the babbling a few minutes ago, Spencer is surprisingly quiet when he comes, and if it isn't for Spencer's fingers biting into his shoulders hard enough to hurt, or the fact that he shakes so hard the headboard thumps against the wall, Carlton would be disappointed with himself. For a moment all Carlton can hear is Spencer's strangled breathing. Then "Lassie," in a hoarse whisper, as Spencer reaches down for Carlton with fumbling fingers.

Carlton wipes his mouth on the sheets and crawls up next to Spencer. Spencer's face is flushed, his eyes half-lidded. His mouth is open and he's breathing long and deep and hard. He clutches at Carlton but doesn't look at him; his gaze stays fixed on the ceiling. He stays like that for so long Carlton starts to wonder if he's all right.

Finally he blinks. Speaks. "That was-" he says, and pauses. Takes a breath. "Wow, Lassie. That was incredible."

Carlton suppresses the little wave of pride that surges at Spencer's words. "Hm," he says noncommittally.

"I'm not kidding, Lassie." Spencer's gaze swings to Carlton. "That was phenomenal. You are a wildcat. You are a jaguar. You are too sexy for your shirt."

Carlton raises his eyebrows. "You never stop, do you?"

Spencer's expression goes oddly blank and he takes a moment before he replies. "Is that a problem?" he asks evenly.

Carlton looks at him carefully. That worry-line has appeared again and it's almost cute, how anxious Spencer has suddenly become. It's not all smoke and mirrors and smooth-talking. There's a human under there after all.

He lets Spencer squirm for a minute, just because it's so deliciously satisfying, and then says, "Spencer. Shawn."

Spencer relaxes, just a little, at the use of his first name.

Carlton reaches for Spencer's hand, gives it a little squeeze. "If you think I'd be here with you now if it was, you really are an idiot."

At that, Spencer lets out a long breath. His smile is radiant.


End file.
